For as long as he could remember pain had permeated his life in nearly every aspect. For Logan, former soldier and current X-Man known as the Wolverine, it was his constant. It was his unfailing link to reality that let him know that, even if all else could proved false, the pain was real and it meant that he was alive. The physical pains he had endured throughout the majority of his life were more than enough to kill most men, but being as he was blessed--or cursed, depending on who you asked--with mutation; his being an unmatched healing factor, none of his wounds had ever been more than a lingering soreness for a day at most.

That was the physical. The emotional pains he’d suffered were not so easily dismissed. He could barely recount the past twenty years of his life but of that twenty, the recent few had been and still were the most heart wrenching for him. Not long past he had come across a wayward teenager in Canada, lost and alone, and at first he had dismissed her outright, but she had worked her way into his heart with her earnest eyes and open need. Try as he might he had been unable to turn his back on her and by taking her under his wing he had been unwittingly been drawn into some rather deep shit.

He and his companion, Rogue, or Marie as she now preferred, had come across some very bad people and after taking a ruthless beating by a brute named Sabertooth that had left him busted and unconscious he and Rogue had been rescued by two mutants known as Storm and Cyclops. Code names it turned out, for a tri force team that called themselves the X-Men. Immediately upon rescue, he and Marie had been transported to Westchester, New York and taken into The Xavier Institute for the Gifted.

It was there that he met the woman that he had come to love more than life itself; Jean Grey. Beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, she had radiated all the things he had craved for himself and had subconsciously deemed out of reach. It had been instant, his attraction for her. She had touched him, stirred him, and admired him, but she had not loved him. Her heart had belonged to and would always belong to her longtime love Scott Summers. Logan knew that now, but it did nothing to diminish how very much he had loved her. Would always love her.

He sighed with more than a hint a bitterness as he snubbed his cigar in the ashtray beside his bed before running his hands through his naturally disheveled hair. Three months after Alcatraz and dreams of her death still woke him in the night. His dreams came with vivid clarity and with such crystal clear intensity that he could still see her eyes pleading with him to release her, still hear the last beats of her heart echoing in his ears and still feel that last whisper of breath against his lips as she slipped forever from his grasp into sweet oblivion.

He leaned back onto the cool cotton of his pillows, not even bothering to fight the ache in his heart. It was futile, he knew, to try and ward it off. It was ever present, always there, worse at night when the only distraction he had was himself. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, making the deep ins and outs match in rhythm. He had no idea where he had picked up the habit of going zen, but he did it often, leading him to believe he had either undergone serious martial arts training or lived somewhere where Eastern culture was prevalent. Not that it really mattered two shits where he picked up the habit, but it would have been nice to know about his past.

His past was as much a mystery now as it ever had been, with no light at the end of the tunnel for him. He tucked his hands behind his head, his wide chest filling the expanse of the bed as he willfully steadied the pace of his heart. Professor Charles Xavier had promised to help Logan find out about the times in his life long forgotten, forced from his mind by shady governments and unknown circumstances, but that was no longer possible, given the fact that Jeannie had demoleculorized Xavier in her crazed state as Phoenix.

So much unnecessary death in the past few months. Jean, Xavier, Scott and the countless soldiers turned to ash on Alcatraz. It had been the darkest time the X-Men had ever faced, and the battle for their right to exist had culminated with the hardest decision he himself had ever had to make. To this day it ate at him. Could he have cured her as opposed to killing her? He doubted it. The only reason he got as close as he had been able to was because Jeannie had wanted him to. She had asked him to end her suffering, and loving her as he did, he could do no other than comply.

Behind his closed eyes he was momentarily back on that island, with Jean’s warm weight in his arms as she whispered, “Save me,“ in that heartbreaking voice of hers. That voice that had haunted him after Alkali Lake and her initial sacrifice, and the voice that plagued his dreams now. He couldn’t escape her here, in the place where he met her. It was impossible. Every hallway, every room, every mission reminded him of her. Some days hurt, others were better, but all of them left him one more day without her.

If he hadn’t promised Storm he would help with the impending fall semester he would have hit the road for one of his extended trips, to escape for awhile, but seeing as how the school was understaffed as it was, he decided against the trip. Besides, Rogue needed him. Her decision to take the cure while it was still offered was weighing heavily on her and she needed him to lean on. He didn’t figure he was much good for anything else lately, but he could be a shoulder for the kid that had led him to the only place he’d called home in two years.

Logan turned his head, his eyes still closed, catching the scent of rain and fresh flowers in the hall, one floor above him. His senses were more acute than any predator’s on the planet, a result of his secondary mutation. So fine tuned, in fact, that Logan’s sense of smell enabled him to catch even the faintest scent in the air or on the ground, even those that dogs couldn’t detect. He was certain, however, that even without his enhanced senses he would recognize the singularly distinctive aroma that was Storm anywhere at anytime.

The Professor had once told him that her given name, Ororo, meant beauty in her native tongue. Logan thought it was a severe understatement. Ororo Munroe went beyond beautiful to straight up exquisite. Her skin, always smooth and blemish free, was the color of warmed chocolate. Her eyes, full of lively intelligence and compassion were the deepest molasses, dark and bottomless; that was unless she was pissed. Then they snapped and swirled, becoming blue as the sky, then arctic until they were ultimately glowing white.

He had more occasion to see them blue than not, he mused with a wry smile. Something about him seemed to get under her skin and prickle. He wouldn’t deny a certain amount of satisfaction in that fact. It took a lot to ruffle the unflappable Storm and he liked doing it every chance he got.

He sniffed the air again, logging her location. She was headed out to the balcony as she was prone to doing at night. He opened one eye and glanced at his bedside clock. Eleven fifteen, time for a night flight. She would return in roughly thirty minutes, shower and go to bed. Asleep by midnight, up at five. It was her schedule, something he’d come to rely on, he mused. Even the nights he went to bed before her, like tonight, he counted on catching her scent and hearing her footfalls. It somehow soothed him to know he wasn’t alone.

He wondered briefly if his presence soothed her at all…


~X~


The night air felt good against her skin, Ororo thought, closing the sliding door behind her. She titled her face skyward, inhaling the night and damp grass. She smiled, Bobby and Peter had mowed the large estate yard, lovingly referred to as the Great Lawn, earlier that morning in preparation for the upcoming visitation and tours of the facility, and the fresh cut grass smell lingered in the air. It was a delightfully normal fragrance that helped remind her that despite the mad rush and seemingly endless to-do’s she had lately there was still a sense of normalcy to her life. Being a mutant superhero and trying to maintain that sense of normalcy was harder than one might suspect.

She leaned forward, her hands pressed against the cool banister. The sky was clear, devoid of clouds giving her a crisp view of the multitude of heavenly diamonds against midnight velvet and the full face of the moon that stared down at her. It truly was a lovely evening, she thought with a pang of longing. It was the type of evening that had often found her and the Professor on that very balcony, sipping hot tea and discussing poetry and flowers, passions for both of them.

She exhaled a shaky breath. Lord, she missed that man. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the white banister before she forced herself to relax. She glanced at the stone bench nearby, her seat when she and Charles had talked into the late hours. She sat so that they could converse on equal level, eye to eye. It had been a gesture on her part to show him that she never thought less of him as a man because he could not stand, and though he never spoke it aloud, his appreciation for her thoughtfulness was evident in every touch, every gentle tone, and every day that he made her feel less like a student and more like a daughter.

A small choked sound escaped her lips before she could fully prevent it. Her shoulders twitched with repressed emotion. Three months and she had not cried. Three months and not one tear shed. She took a deep breath. Her tears would not bring her beloved Charles back, all she could do was honor him and his request that she follow in his much too large footsteps and hope to keep his dream alive and make him proud.

With a final, fleeting, look at the stone bench Ororo launched herself over the balcony rail and up into the sky, spinning high and relaxing back, floating much as one would float in a pool, only she rode the air currents. She closed her eyes, letting all thought leave her, relying solely on her feel for the earth’s rhythm of things and the rightness of nature.

After a few moments she caught a faint whiff of a familiar blend of cigar in the clean air. Cuban, vintage, hand rolled; a gift from Xavier to Logan the first Christmas the feral had been with the X-Men had been an ornate cigar box full of one of a kind blends. Logan had been at a loss, never having received gifts that he could recall. Charles had waved off Logan’s offer to pay for the cigars with a slightly amused look exchanged with Ororo, whose idea it had been to get the cigars in the first place. “They’re a gift, Logan,” he had said gently. “Meant for you to enjoy with no obligation for anything in return.”

That was simply the way Charles had always worked, give all that you are, expect nothing in return save the reward within oneself and take each day and each small step forward for what they were worth, miracles.

Above the mansion Storm righted herself to vertical, her eyes searching out and finding effortlessly the open second story window and the man sitting on the ledge, his bare back pressed to the wood with one knee propped to keep his balance. Not that it mattered, she thought idly, Logan could easily survive a two story fall.

His dark head tiltled in greeting, the end of his Cuban flaring cherry red in the dark as he inhaled. Ororo raised one hand in silent acknowledgement toward the only other person who had borne witness to her mentor’s fall. They had never spoken of the incident after it happened, both too immersed in their own minds and grief she assumed. Ororo had been busy hardening her heart for the battle ahead and preparing a funeral for the only father she’d ever really known and Logan, well, Logan had been just as busy plotting ways to try and reach the red head responsible for Xavier’s death and bring her back to them--to him. He had refused to believe that Jean was gone, that the woman he loved was capable of such horror…Ororo on the other hand had known better.

With one last spin and flip she floated back to the balcony. Her bare feet touched the cool stones lightly, barely skimming them, in a manner that Charles had once told her reminded him of the expression ‘dancing on air‘. That thought brought about another twinge of sorrow.

Would the memories not leave this evening? She quashed that thought before it was even fully formed. She’d take all the memories, all the heartache, every nightmare and every fleeting stab of sorrow and self doubt she had; she would take all of it, because they were hers, she earned them. She would hold onto, with both hands, each memory, each and every shared moment with the man that had taught her not to fear those that feared her, the man that taught her that pity was useless, but empathy was empowering. The man who had painstakingly helped her understand her place in the world and what it took, the kind of sacrifices that were to be made, for a dream worth fighting for; for a family worth protecting.

His dream was her dream now, his responsibilities now hers to bear. The family that he, in the end, had died to protect was now under her protection, and she too would die before she failed them. Before she failed him.

She opened the sliding doors once more, stepping through into the inky shadows of the hall. She walked the corridor, listening for any sounds of disturbance, checking on the rooms where the door was ajar, clicking off lights and adjusting nightlights as needed in her rounds. Each student was important to her, each special, and it was her job to protect them, guide them and help them find their way.

Ororo paused outside of Jimmy’s room, placing her hand on the closed door. He was still painfully shy and quiet, blaming himself far more than he would ever admit for what had happened. The mutant cure derived from his DNA was no longer being made, in large part as a result of the final battle, and mutants saving the world from being ripped apart to its most basic atoms by the Phoenix. Although Worthington Labs had stopped production and Jimmy had been placed under Hank McCoy’s care, and thus placed with Ororo and the X-Men for his safety, there were still mutants and humans alike out there that wanted to do him harm and use the young boy.

Ororo’s hand curled in on itself. Not on her watch. They had lost too much as it was. No more blood was she willing to let be spilt by her students. No more.

~X~


Amidst the holocaust of battle she heard him call to her.

“Be their light…Show them the way…”

“CHARLES!” She had screamed as her body had been flung from the Grey house, smashing through the front bay window as a shockwave erupted from the study where Xavier confronted Jean.

The walls of the house had bulged, the wood cracking with the force of it, splintering under the awesome, cataclysmic power the likes of which could never have been imagined until made real.

She had cared not for the impressive display, only on reaching her friend--her teacher. “Oh, God, no…no…” She had staggered to her feet, running towards the pile of rubble that had once been a lovely two story home.

Logan had busted his way through the wreckage, shouldering his way in a few steps ahead of her. She had retained an iota of hope against hope that they would find Charles until she saw Logan drop to his knees, his body seeming to give out from beneath him. “Nnnnnooooo.” His pain became hers when she followed his gaze and her eyes rested on the empty wheelchair.

Charles Xavier was dead.

Her knees gave out and she clung to Logan’s back, her sobs coming from deep inside, the very bottom of her soul. Charles Xavier was dead…she had failed him.


Ororo sat up, gasping for breath, her hand flying out to slap her offending alarm clock, accidentally knocking it to the floor. Wiping the sweat from her head with her forearm she waited for her heartbeat to decelerate to a near normal pace. When she was once more relatively calm she rolled from her bed, tugging on her thin silk robe. She didn’t bother knotting the sash, instead letting the material flutter behind her as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

Back in her youth in Africa she had slept naked more often than not, and had for a time at Xavier‘s, but given the number of times Scott had pulled random room checks and late night “emergency drills” she had given up nudity for comfortable and efficient boy shorts and tank tops.

A small smile graced her face as she removed the carton of eggs from the fridge, memories of Scott’s first random room check rising to the surface of her mind. She chuckled softly, cracking two eggs in one hand with practiced efficiency, dumping the contents into a small mixing bowl where she intended to add some milk and cheese for scrambled eggs.

A grumpy growl of a voice interrupted her thoughts. “I can’t imagine anything bein’ amusing at 5:30 in the damn morning’.”

She tossed a look over her shoulder, her warm eyes still dancing with her inner thoughts. Logan strode barefoot through the swinging door, wearing his blue jeans and with tank, one hand scratching the dark curls on his chest. “No?” She pursed her lips. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Ain’t it though?” He grunted, running the tap, testing the filtered water with his fingertips. Satisfied he filled the empty coffee carafe, pouring it into the machine. He cricked his neck, a loud popping sound was followed by a sigh of contentment. “Good stuff,” he muttered, opening the sealed coffee beans and pouring some into the grinder. “Yours?” he asked. Ororo was a bit of a coffee aficionado and whenever she stocked the coffee it was some of the best tasting stuff he’d ever had.

“Mmhm. Brazillian.” She began whisking her eggs.

They moved around one another easily, having over the past few months developed an early morning ritual that consisted of eggs, toast, coffee and mutual respect for the others space and quiet time. Ororo set the table for herself, knowing better than to offer Logan anything; he’d have his cup of black coffee, his morning beer and then be on his way, so she made a place setting only for herself.

Logan watched with mild interest as she laid down a placemat, fork, spoon, cup of juice, small bowl of fruit and of course her scrambled eggs and toast on a plate. She shook out a cloth napkin, no paper towels for her, and placed it on her lap. She picked up her fork, piled high with a steamy bite of egg, and took a bite, chewing slowly as she perused the headlines of the paper.

The early morning light, still more gray than anything, cast an eerie glow in the kitchen, making her hair shine more vivid than usual. She had let it grow out a bit in the past few months, the white strands brushing her shoulder blades. Her hair was constantly changing, Logan thought, pouring himself a cup of Brazilian brew and taking a drink. It was damn good. He’d once made a comment about her salon bill to which she had simply replied, “The seasons change, as do I.”

“Sleep alright?” he asked taking the seat across from her.

She looked up from the paper, a bit startled. “Yes, fine,” she lied. “And you?”

“Like a baby,” he lied in return.

She nodded. “Good.” She went back to reading. She flipped the paper over, the motion causing the silky material of her robe to slip, baring the smooth curve of her shoulder.

Logan paused in the act of taking a sip, his eyes resting on her satiny skin. There was something about Ororo that was indescribable. She was elegant and feminine without being pretentious. He reached over without thinking about it, righting her robe, the backs of his fingers lingering ever so slightly on her arm. It was a simple gesture, so light she barely felt it, but it sent a subtle undercurrent through both of them.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his and for a moment, just a brief moment, both were laid bare and vulnerable, each letting down their walls and revealing hurt, and ache…and perhaps promise. She blinked quickly, looking away. The moment was broken.

Logan finished his coffee, hastily getting up away from the table. His hands flexed at his sides. “Catch ya later, ‘Ro.”

She lifted her hand farewell, but didn’t look at him again. A few minutes later she heard the rumble of his motorcycle.

Ororo couldn’t finish her breakfast, for reasons she tried to convince herself that had nothing to do with Logan. She dumped the remains of her uneaten breakfast into the disposal before she returned to the stove. She piled the left over eggs from the pan onto a new plate, popped some fresh toast, buttered it and microwaved several strips of bacon.

“Something smells really good!” Robert Drake said as he entered the kitchen, another early riser. He took a deep breath, practically salivating.

Ororo smiled, gesturing to the table where she had already prepared him a plate.

“Storm, you are the best!” He began shoveling the food into his mouth before he’d even sat completely down on the chair.

“You say that now,” she teased. “Wait until this afternoon and I run you through about a dozen Danger Room drills.”

Bobby groaned. “You wouldn‘t be so cruel, would you?”

Ororo threw her head back and did her best diabolical laugh. “Mwuhahahaha, your soul belongs to me,” she hissed, allowing her eyes to glow white.

Bobby blinked, egg dropping from his fork onto his plate with a flop. “You can be downright scary, you know that.”

“Remember that.” she said lightly.

“Will do.”

After a quick clean up Ororo left the kitchen. Her hand strayed to her shoulder unconsciously as she walked up the stairs to her room. She tried ineffectually to shrug off the tingle that brief touch had given her, one that she felt even hours later while she was busy preparing the fall curriculum. It was nothing, she told herself. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had always found Logan to be particularly appealing, ever since she had met him on that cold Canadian road. There was something wild and primitive about him that called to her very core. As one child of nature to another.

He was also a monumental pain in her ass, she reminded herself. They could never be anything more than teammates, she corrected and solidified her earlier assessment. It was too complicated and too dangerous to get involved. Besides, she mused, flipping through her mountain of paperwork, it wasn’t like he had any real interest in her anyway. He was Jean’s. Even dead, the red head had more of Logan than Ororo could ever hope to, so why bother hoping? It could only lead to heartache and pain, and of that she’d had more than enough.

~X~


A few hours later the afternoon found Logan sitting on his bike, staring out past the overlook and into the city, bathed yellow by the noontime sun, but his mind wasn’t on the scenery, it was somewhere back at Xavier’s mulling over the complex woman that was Ororo Munroe. Unassuming and borderline Princess were his initial impressions of the white haired weather manipulator when they had first met, and over the course of the past two years he had come to see her differently. Fierce, loyal, protective, stubborn, willful and controlled. She had some amazingly good qualities, as well as some that made him want to wring her lovely little neck.

Where Jean had been warm and welcoming Ororo had always regarded him with cautious eyes. Where Jean pleaded with him: Please, Logan, don’t make me do this…Save me, please. Ororo demanded of him: If you’re with us, than be with us! She took no shit and made no excuses. He admired and resented that about her.

He thought briefly about their battles on Alcatraz and how she had followed his lead and taking control when necessary. She was a real leader, willing to bend when needed and unwilling when necessary. He unwillingness to bend where Jeannie was concerned still bothered him. She had seemed so quick to write Jean off as a lost cause and irredeemable. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more about that, the fact that she had been correct, or the fact that maybe she viewed him in the same way. Once a killer, always a killer, no redemption, no leeway, no forgiveness. Absently he rubbed the ridges between his knuckles where his claws emerged.

He knew in his current mood that he couldn’t head back to the Institute just yet. He needed a ride and a breather. He pulled his cell from his pocket, dialing Ororo’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, ‘Ro.” He shifted position, readying the bike for ignition. “I’m gonna take off for a bit.” It wasn’t a request.

He heard her sigh softly, a bit exasperated. “But I have you scheduled to run Peter through some new defensive programs today.”

“Them’s the breaks.”

“Alright, fine. I suppose I can fit it in with my schedule.” He heard papers rustling. “We have visits all day tomorrow. Will you be around?”

“Possibly. Probably not, though.” He checked the gas tank.

“Well,” he heard her teeth clamp. “When do you think that you will be back?”

“A day or two, tops.”

“Logan, now is not the best time for you to go disappearing. We have a million things to do.”

“First off, I’m not disappearing. I’ll be back in a day or two. Second, I don’t need any shit. I just called so you wouldn’t send the teenie-bop crew lookin’ for me and Marie wouldn‘t worry. I ain’t askin’ ya, darlin’, this is just a courtesy call so to speak. ”

“Courtesy noted. And, Logan…”

“Yeah?”

“I am not your darlin’.” She hung up.

Logan pulled his phone away from his ear. That hadn’t gone well.

~X~


Ororo slapped her cell phone shut, her face clouded with tension. She resisted the urge to yank her hair out with her hands. Plucking her scalp bald would solve nothing, perhaps cut down on her need for hair care products, but otherwise solve nothing.

She sighed softly moving aside her ledger and penciling in a defensive DR session with Peter. She’d have to put it between two potential staff interviews, but she supposed she could fit it in. She’d just move planning the events schedule until later that evening.

“Storm?” Kitty Pryde’s head phased through the door, her chestnut curls bobbing. “Madam Headmistress?” The girl teased.

Ororo smiled indulgently. “Hello, Kitty.”

“You know I hate when you do that.” Kitty scowled at the play on words.

“I know.” Ororo seemed unperturbed by that. “What can I do for you?”

“You have a phone call.”

Ororo glanced at her cell, then at her desk phone that was her private line. Her brow furrowed slightly. “I do?”

“Yeah, he called the house phone.”

Ororo rose, straightening her black pinstriped skirt and white shirt. “Did you get the name of who was calling?”

“Yep.” Kitty scrunched her nose. “He said you’d know him as ‘The Maker’.”

Ororo grimaced. “Forge.” Shit, she’d completely forgotten that she was supposed to have called him. A mutant blessed with the extraordinary ability to make whatever he thought of, Forge was the man responsible for the Blackbird, the cloaking devices, the Danger Room, the bullet proof leathers the team wore and countless other technological advances that the X-Men possessed. He was a good friend who at one time had expressed interest in dating Ororo, but after a few movies and dinners they had come to the mutual conclusion that they were not well suited.

“Okay, thanks, Kitten. I’ll take it in here.” Ororo pressed the blinking line a moment later when Kitty patched the call through.

“Hello, Forge?”

A smooth voice replied, “Ah, so you do remember me.”

“I am so sorry, Forge. I have a million things-”

“No worries, Windrider.” He paused. “My deepest sympathies on your losses.”

She swallowed. “Thank you. Do you have the new programs completed?”

Noting the quick topic shift Forge moved on. “Yep, sure do. Heat sensors and stun settings all ready to go.”

“Great.” She said. “I don’t suppose you can find time to come up and install them?” Without Charles to tap into Forge’s mind and set up the system Ororo was having to read the dictionary thick manuals and learn everything herself. It was a time consuming process.

“Sure. I can be there in less than a day.”

“Really? That quickly?”

“For you, absolutely.”

She smiled into the phone. “I appreciate that.”

“Alright then, I’ll see you soon.”

“Sounds good. Tell Val I send my best.” They said their goodbyes.

“He sounds cute.” Kitty’s head popped back in.

Ororo‘s eyes narrowed. “You eavesdropped?”

“I think of it as forgetting to hang up.” Kitty grinned cheekily. “So, is he?”

“What?”

“Cute, duh.”

Ororo nodded. “Very.”

“Oooooh.”

“And very married.”

Kitty’s face dropped. “Oh.”

Ororo cocked a brow. “Forge is too old for you.”

“Not for me,” Kitty sighed. “For you.”

Ororo blinked.

“You have no love life.” Kitty pointed out frankly.

“My love life is none of your concern.” Ororo said, straightening.

“What about Mr. McCoy? He’s hot if you like the furry blue types.”

“Out!” Ororo pointed her finger.

Kitty was halfway through the wood. “You could play Belle--”

“Out!”

“AndhecouldplayBeast!”

Ororo flounced into her chair. “That girl.” She shook her head, but Kitty’s words stayed with her. She had no love life. Had never really had one, to be truthful. Honestly she didn’t know what she’d do if she ever fell in love. She probably wouldn’t even recognize it if it was right in front of her face.





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